


Ambush

by Machs88



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ambushes and Sneak Attacks, Angmar, Arnor, Eregion, Gen, Gondor, Moral Dilemmas, Original Character(s), Pre-War of the Ring, Rohan, The Shire, Third Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-29 19:48:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18300815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Machs88/pseuds/Machs88
Summary: Third Age 2740. What if Steward's Men discovered the Rangers of the North's true identity?





	Ambush

Year 2740 of the Third Age. Year 765 since the fall of the Northern Kingdom.

Silence. Only the silence reigned in the little bush of the Hollin. Not a verse of animal, not a step, not a rustling of leaves. Only silence. They didn't make any noise either. They were there, crouched, immobile. On hold. Time passed. Midday was followed by afternoon, and some sunrays hit them, in a cruel mockery of a hint of the past.

Ilbarad risked a look outside. Nothing yet. He sat down again. They had been waiting for them for two days. And from there they had to pass. The bush had grown thick on the Elven ruins, but all around it was an open and barren plain, albeit a rough one. No way to go unnoticed, especially not an entire company. The target party came from Rivendell, they had to pass there, if they wanted to make for the Gap of Rohan. Rivendell.

On their own, they had travelled as fast as possible, and men from the whole North had been gathered to gather enough strength on such a short notice. The damned northern realm had almost been emptied of the watchful sentries who had been watching it for nearly eight centuries. Even the region of the ancient cities had been left almost empty, save for an handful of men in Norbury of the Kings, and between Bree and the Shire there were only a few men left. Maybe thirty or so. Moreover at a time when the Orcs had never been so aggressive.  
A risk, Ilbarad admitted it without problems, but sometimes you have to take the risk. Especially in this case.

A Ranger pushed himself to the edge of the bush, and gave a quick glance.

Andur, true elven eye. No one knew who the father was, because the mother had always refused to admit anything, and the gossips had immediately suggested that he was one of the Firstborn. An absurdity, clearly, worthy more of a hillman than of a man of the west. But, if half-elf Andur was not, surely he had the long and penetrating sight of the Firstborn. After a long exploration, Andur had to see something that pleased him, because he trotted calmly to the commander.

"They're coming".

With a sigh, Captain Berennas rose to his feet, making a broad gesture. They're coming. Ilbarad mentally prepared himself as he moved to the position he had chosen. Berennas carried out a bundle, revealing a long steel-bow. A real steel-bow of old. Ilbarad had seen them only in the fortress deep in the forests of the Angle.

Serious business.

When Ilbarad arrived at the outer bushes, their objective was now clearly visible. They did not expect an attack of any kind and the horses raised a great cloud of dust. His stomach tightened. Decades of war without quarter, neither given nor received, had not prepared him for such a thing. Not for the first time, he wondered if it was better to join the militia that guarded and defended the villages. But it would have been of little use: even some of the militia had been summoned.

Nothing could justify what they were about to accomplish, if not the need. Absolute necessity, pressing, imperative. Need to keep the secret, on pain of waking up the Enemy against them, and more ruthless than ever. Or, perhaps even worse, on pain of unleashing the preventive alarm of the Lord of the South. Before the time had come. But would it ever come?

Chieftain Arassuil, in person, drew his longsword, visibly preparing to give the order of attack.

They were so close now that the proud banner flapped with pride in the wind, snapping and giving a glimpse of the crest. A long black standard, with a lush tree in the middle. White.

Arassuil lowered his sword. Ilbarad shot the arrow. The ambush snapped. The twenty-five proud knights of Minas Tirith bravely defended themselves, and after three thousand years Dúnedain fought other Dúnedain. After a few hours, the surviving horses had been taken away, the dead stripped of their weapons and buried - with dignity - all together. One kin, one grave.

Year 2740 of the Third Age. Year 765 since the fall of the Northern Kingdom. First year since the end of innocence.


End file.
